Proverbial Saint, Iron Maiden: Clairvoyant Utopia
by Utopia Salad
Summary: A regular night in a college dorm goes awry as I find myself locked out of my room, thrown into an alternate universe. All events in the story are based on happenings in my life!


**Author's Reminder: **Hello, children. It is I, Utopia Salad, speaking. I know the story isn't related to Gundam Wing yet, but it will be. After reading yet another fan fiction placing authors in the Gundam Universe I knew I had to go there as well. Just, mine won't place me in direct contact with the pilots yet. The story I read had the character meeting the Gundam pilots right away, which seems highly unlikely. In later chapters you'll see my interactions with the pilots, but right now I'll have to wander the streets of random colonies looking for a place to settle down. Such is life. If you crash into a celebrity, you die happy. If you don't, too fucking bad.

I don't own Gundam Wing but I do own my character. I'd rather you not use my character in other stories because it draws heavily on my personality. Hell, it's my baby!

Reviews are appreciated. I posted the first chapter on a message board to gauge the response of a large audience and found they hate the middle part. If you need help understanding metaphors, leave me a review or send me a message. I'll gladly respond.

Now, on to the story! Don't laugh if the beta comes out weird. I suck at computers, and life too, apparently, but we won't talk about that.

* * *

_ If anyone put a gun to my forehead asking me to summarize my life in a paragraph, I wouldn't be able to do it. I suck at condensing important events into newsworthy blurbs. Hell, I can't even write a decent, six hundred word article for my school paper without angering two dozen people in the process. Last semester, I nearly went into cardiac arrest writing a two- paged double spaced English paper. Everything I wanted to say exploded into organic confetti. When my brain came to, I noticed I'd received a B on the paper. A god damn B!_

_ As you can tell, these aren't the types of thoughts I normally ponder late Saturday night. I usually spend Saturday night sitting on my brown, blood stained comforter, staring at a blank computer screen. A bottle of crappy, president's choice eye drops flank my right hand, a few scattered papers resting placidly on my room mate's bookshelf above my head. _

_ Now, you must be wondering why I keep eye drops so close by. It's not every day you run into a person incapable of living without their soothing kiss. I, however, have created an Olympic sport out of using eye drops. My eyes are so sensitive they tear when I set foot outside my room. Fuck if they aren't gushing liquid less than two minutes after I wake up! On bad days I feel like tearing the mother fuckers out of my head. No one should have to deal with the pain two useless, round orbs sing when gushing tears._

_ My eyes, however, are the least of my worries. It is my room most people worry about when they first get to know me. One day, I'm sure my room will win an award for being the butt of every twister joke on campus. My room mate thinks I've accidentally buried the lost city of Atlantis under the crap spilling out of my closet. For all I know, that could be true. I have yet to traverse the triangular, Everest shaped mounds littering my carpet._

_ What really stumps people is the pile of sweaty, blood stained clothes clogging the end of my bed. I tell outsiders the pile of clothes remind me of how brilliantly lazy I am. These clothes, I jest, are trophies I won for being myself. After all, I can't bring myself to destroy the very essence of my personality. _

_ I love myself too much to change the daily routine I've grown used to following. Thus, after eighteen years of existence, I still spend Saturday night's typing away on a rickety lap top. I'm watching my instant messenger screen blink two obnoxious shades of orange as we speak. Orange. What a funny color for a screen to blink this late at night._

_ Boredom does strange things to people. I'm almost tempted to respond to the person who sent me the message, even though he was too hung over to speak the last time I saw him. Alcohol. Just the perfect combination of mystery and intrigue to bring a man to his knees. I can follow the sparkling trail of illusion located at the bottom of every beer bottle just as well as any beverage loving aficionado. Even though I don't drink. _

_Maybe I will talk to the guy sending me messages online. At least talking to him is better than walking out my door. I'm afraid acknowledging the events of the past few days will make my head throb like a pulsing stereo. Trust me, the last thing I want to hear playing inside my head are hackneyed rap songs. I'd rather embrace a porcupine than listen to men singing blues style music to the beat of synthesized wails and sneezes. Rap music makes me cry floods of acid rain. The sneezes and wails remind me of the tissues I don't offer passerby's in times of need._

_Perhaps, in the dying light of rose tinted celebrations, Atlantis will rise from the depths of my floor, hands stretched in neutral greeting. Honestly, I don't know if I'd glare questions at the intruder or sink into its comforting embrace like a soldier tired of killing humans in support of a dead cause. My smoking heart, the one companion I'd turn to at such monumental moments, lost its ability to beat the day I declared mankind would destroy the earth. That was, ironically, the same day my vision went gray._

_You all must be wondering how a world full of color could loose its luster in less time than it takes a human to dress for school. Well, if people didn't have skeletons in their closets, skulls wouldn't blossom among roses, would they? (1) I wouldn't spend my nights curled in protective agony, ears plugged against the shades of gray the sky cried each night. This fucking child wouldn't have to dream about painting the sky rainbow with an opera of emotions to feel alive._

_If I had the chance, I'd read every god damn book I found sporting a philosophical title. The philosophical wisdom of educated men and women is the coffee I want to drink every morning. But don't. Just like these past few days. I'm beginning to wonder, should I sample the juices flowing through the porous membrane of my past? _

* * *

"_Typical." _I thought, closing my diary with a slam. My pencil danced to the ground, upturned lead point boring holes in my back. Eyes flashing crimson, I leapt off my chair, dislodging a black, chalk stained coat from its position on the floor.

"_Well, if I'm going to leave, I better go now before I change my mind. Fuck if I've got anything else left to loose! Damn hypocrites took everything I knew from me anyways."_ I laughed, an eerie noise akin to a clogged garbage grinder filling the room. _"What will you get if you place a hypocrite in solitary isolation?" _A frown tugged at my brow, dragging lines of stress across my forehead. What a time to be pondering thoughts like these. I had far more important things to focus on, like that fucking Anthropology essay holding on to life in the corner of my room with the tips of its shaking fingers.

"_Wouldn't be surprised if the fucking essay got rigor mortis and began smelling like a dead man." _Another laugh escaped my lips, dry, brittle. _"Can't admit I was surprised when my teacher stuck an IV into it the other day and proclaimed it unable to live without extensive life support."_

The door creaked and I looked up to see the dust laden, ancient toe of my roommate's black boot poke its nose through the door. My thoughts scattered to the four corners of the room as I jumped off the bed, pulling a long, tie-dye shirt over my head. Her sudden arrival reminded me that I was less than adequately dressed to leave my room.

"Hey, Ann!" Her voice greeted me in a flutter of cheery anticipation as another boot joined the first one next to the door. I leveled a glare worthy of bursting a wormhole in outer space at the boots before throwing open a small set of clear, plastic drawers next to my bed. Why did those fucking boots have to stare at me as if they were the epitome of morality?

The door creaked open, slivers of faded fluorescent light framing my roommate's average frame. Several pairs of frilly underwear soared over my head, landing on my computer case like a bride's bouquet in an eligible woman's hands. A cough, stern, unbiased, marched past my ears before a flurry of raven and rainbow dashed across the room, coming to rest behind the tall bookshelf blocking the left side of my bed. I'd been caught.

"Damn it, O.J! Quit sneaking up on me like that!" I frowned, my soft, childish face wrinkling in irritation. Glancing up, I saw my roommate's short, olive skin disappear behind the green covers of her blanket. A crop of short, black hair spilled over the top of her blanket, sticks dancing in an autumnal breeze around her chubby neck.

A muffled voice responded from the other side of the room. "Are you done yet?"

"Can't you see I'm busy, child?"

"Just let me know when you are done."

"So, O.J, do you have any plans for dinner tonight?" I muttered, slipping on a pair of grey socks with hand-stitched rainbow flowers. Running a hand down my pale, stubbly, legs I pulled a pair of white underwear on, halfheartedly listening to my roommate's answer.

"No. Not anymore. I already ate."

"Damn it! Then what am I supposed to do?" Crossing the room, I tossed a vintage crinoline on over my undergarments, throwing a brown skirt over the crinoline with minimal effort.

"Ask Esmeralda if she wants to eat with you."

"Fuck if I know where that child is. I called her two fucking hours ago and she didn't pick up her cell phone or her room phone."

"Yeah, Esmeralda is really hard to reach these days."

Frustrated, I tore my shirt off my shoulders and deposited it in a crumpled heap on the floor. I stared at it for a few seconds, debating if I should fold it or leave it on the floor, and decided to make it fend for itself. A pause ensued as I buttoned a lacy pink camisole over a white shirt, pulling the edges of the shirt smooth in several awkward movements.

"Well I'm going out to get some grub. Anything I should get you?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Okay! Then I'll see you later tonight!"

My roommate smiled, slowly stepping out from underneath her makeshift shelter. Her dirt brown eyes caught mine and I laughed, poking her playfully on her left shoulder. Grabbing my backpack I turned to leave, pausing to stare at my reflection in the full length mirror attached to my door.

Dark, chestnut brown strands of hair grinned up at me from around my shoulders, framing a childish face stretched thin with fatigue. Black orbs filled with crystalline emotions met my gaze from beneath the sparse shadows cast by two angry, sick eyebrows. My body, curved like a sharp highway, rose in a fluid, graceful tribute to a well-balanced lifestyle.

"_It's not my fault I like fruits and vegetables more than junk food!"_ I thought before opening the door and stepping out into the hallway.

"By O.J!" I called out, slipping on a pair of black Mary Jane shoes. "Don't let the bedbugs bite!"

(1): Most frequently complained about metaphor. Means someone has a secret that they aren't telling anyone else because it has the potential to destroy their social life. When it does come out, the secret is so powerful it kills everything around it, eventually collapsing in on itself. You know, one of those secrets your enemy divulges to your other enemies without realizing how much their life will suck after revealing the secret. Most people who tell these kinds of secrets feel extremely guilty after a while, effectively killing the effectiveness of the secret.

I tend to ramble a lot in real life and spew metaphors related to society. This is what I would do if I was bored, which I am in this part of the story.


End file.
